Reconciliation for the Dead

by Paul E. Hardisty

  As Crowbar’s words registered in Clay’s brain, sending a shock wave of adrenaline thundering through his body, a philosophy was born. He didn’t know it then of course, and wouldn’t be able to articulate the basic principles of this new belief until many years later, but this was the moment when it all started to coalesce in his mind.

  If you don’t care, it can’t hurt you.

  Simple enough. And certainly not new. But for him, at twenty-two, looking down the mouth of a loaded gun held by the last person on the planet he’d still trusted, a revelation. And, in the nullity of its meaning, the parallel and opposed mirror-image negatives, the seeming cancelling-out of everything he’d been raised to believe, to trust, there was a measure of the order and balance the universe seemed no longer to contain.

  Crowbar stared at him, the gun steady in his hand.

  ‘Why you?’ said Clay. It came out as a croak, a hoarse half-whisper.

  ‘I volunteered.’

  ‘No,’ was all Clay could manage. Everything was coming down around him, every last part of the rotten scaffolding that had propped him up, every crutch and prop of delusion built up since childhood.

  ‘Understand, Straker. If what you know gets out, some very powerful people will end up looking very bad. More importantly, they could lose a lot of money. I told you to leave it, but you wouldn’t listen. And a lot of people are dead now because of it.’

  Clay swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. ‘What they’re doing is wrong, Koevoet. You know it is.’

  ‘It isn’t a question of wrong or right. You can’t think that way. That was Barstow’s problem – a fokken idealist. These people, they have the power, Straker. So they make the rules. We are nothing.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. All you have to do is decide.’

  Crowbar laughed, walked to the fridge, keeping the gun levelled at Clay, took out another beer. ‘You think so?’ he said. ‘Look around you. Can’t even get a cold fokken beer in this place.’ He cracked the top against the butt of the weapon.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Shut up and listen, Straker.’ Crowbar turned the chair around and sat with his legs straddling the chair-back. ‘This war, the one we’ve been fighting, it’s not about the Rool Gevdar, or protecting our precious way of life.’ What Wade had said.

  Clay said nothing. He hadn’t believed that for a long time.

  ‘Why do you think we’re supporting UNITA?’

  ‘Because they’re supporting us.’

  ‘Wrong, Straker. Deals have been made. UNITA doesn’t give a shit about South Africa. The reason we’re in Angola fighting the commies is so that when UNITA wins, with our help, they’ll hand over control of the country’s resources to us.’

  ‘Who is us?’

  ‘Them.’

  ‘Same question.’

  ‘The people who want you dead, Straker. The people who sent me here. This isn’t about politics, ideals. It’s about money, seun, plunder. Oil leases, diamonds like the ones you took from that asshole Mbdele, wood, ivory, whatever. There are no sides. There is only who gets what.’

  ‘And what does UNITA get?’

  ‘Power. Control. The means to exact revenge. That’s what they think they’re getting, anyway.’

  ‘But they’re not.’

  ‘No, they’re not. Part of COAST’s job is to flood Angola with highly addictive drugs. Kak like MDMA. COAST manufactures the stuff and ships it into Angola by air. UNITA distributes in-country, and in the process become addicts themselves.’

  ‘That day at the airstrip with Colonel Mbdele.’

  ‘Right. They pay with ivory, diamonds, anything they can get their hands on.’

  ‘And with human beings.’

  ‘Exactly. Symbiosis. It’s the perfect set-up.’

  Clay stared at his commander, his mentor, his enemy. ‘And these people you work for, is it BOSS?’

  Crowbar laughed, tilted his head back. ‘That bunch of dofs? Hell no. They work for us.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Crowbar tipped the bottle to his lips, swallowed. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Here it is, Straker: these people, the ones who pull the strings, they don’t have sides.’

  ‘And COAST?’

  ‘Does pretty much as it likes. Grasson works for them.’

  ‘And the swarts bom?’

  ‘A more efficient means of subjugation.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘These people don’t care about the nation – my nation. As long as it can be used to serve their interests, they will tolerate it. If they can subjugate and control it, so much the better.’

  ‘The Broederbond.’

  Crowbar nodded, tapped the muzzle of the Beretta on the edge of the table. ‘Apartheid is just a way to make sure the bastards don’t have to share.’

  ‘And anyone who gets in the way, they kill.’ Clay hung his head.

  ‘That’s right. Kill, or torture, or imprison, or more often than not just scare into compliance. Most people just shut up and do what they’re told. The brave ones, the ones who stand up and fight, those they kill.’

  ‘The village near Rito.’

  ‘Ja, them.’

  ‘You knew.’

  Crowbar inclined his head.

  ‘Why? Why did you do it, Koevoet?’

  ‘To save you, Straker. You and Barstow.’

  Clay choked back tears. ‘Bullshit. Don’t say it.’

  Even here, in the dim light of a tropic afternoon, Crowbar’s eyes shone a deep glacier blue. ‘It’s the truth,’ he whispered.

  Clay covered his face with hands.

  ‘It was them, or you. The bastards knew what you’d done, what you’d seen, out there over the Atlantic. Those villagers were dead anyway. That woman Zulaika wasn’t going to back down. I convinced them that I could keep you quiet. I was wrong.’

  ‘And now you have to clean up the mess.’

  Crowbar finished his beer. ‘Someone had to. I don’t send others to fix my mistakes.’

  ‘They killed Wade, didn’t they? These people of yours.’

  Crowbar tapped the Beretta’s muzzle on the table top in a slow heartbeat. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  ‘I said, they killed Wade.’

  ‘I tried to warn him.’

  ‘It was Botha.’

  ‘Ja. But you don’t need to worry about it. Botha’s dead.’

  ‘Good. How?’

  ‘Very unfortunate. He was killed by a stray bullet to the head. About two months ago during one of his buying trips into Angola.’

  Clay sat staring at Crowbar, at the gun in his hand, tried to contemplate his end, but could find no way of starting.

  ‘I’m sorry, seun,’ said Crowbar after a time. ‘I didn’t want it to be this way. Any of it.’

  Clay looked into Crowbar’s eyes. ‘I trusted you.’

  ‘But you didn’t listen to me.’

  ‘Fok jou.’

  ‘One day, Straker, this whole pile of shit will come crashing down. And when it does, then maybe the story can be told. I hope I’m around to see it. But now is not that time.’ Crowbar stood. ‘Do you have the photographs?’ he said. ‘The ones you took in the lab?’

  Clay nodded.

  ‘And the notebook?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Without them, there isn’t much of a story, is there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Without proof, it’s just your word.’ Crowbar lowered the weapon, dropped the mag, ejected the live round and put the gun on the table.

  Clay’s heart lurched.

  Crowbar took a step back. ‘Give me the film, Straker. And the book.’

  Clay looked at the gun, up at Crowbar.

  ‘You left the country before I could find you.’

  Clay glanced down at the documents on the table.

  ‘Decide, Straker.’

  Not much of a choice. Live, and bury the story forever; or die here, and t
he truth dies with you. Clay made to reach behind him for Brigade’s backpack.

  ‘Do it slow,’ said Crowbar.

  Clay had no illusions about Crowbar’s capacity to kill him instantly. He reached into the backpack’s outer zip pouch, pulled out the film canister and the notebook and put them on the table.

  Crowbar regarded the objects for a moment, as if he, too, was making a decision. Finally, he picked up the canister and the blue, hard-covered notebook and stashed them in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Go, Straker,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Get out of here. And this time, take my advice. Live your life. Keep quiet. If you don’t, they will kill you, I promise you. Consider that a direct order.’

  ‘What will you do?’ managed Clay, still reeling.

  ‘My job. Try to keep salt-dick amateurs like you alive long enough to see something good come out of this Godforsaken country.’ Crowbar put the empty beer bottle on the table and started towards the door.

  ‘Koevoet, wait.’

  Crowbar stopped, one hand on the doorframe.

  ‘Did you kill Botha?’

  Crowbar smiled. It was a big, toothy grin that creased deep lines around his mouth and eyes. ‘What do you think, seun?’ Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. ‘Almost forgot,’ he said, flipping the envelope to Clay. And then he was gone.

  Commissioner Ksole: This van Boxmeer, Crowbar as you call him, do you know what has become of him?

  Witness: No, sir. I do not.

  Commissioner Ksole: You have not had any contact with him since?

  Witness: No, sir. I never saw him again.

  Commissioner Ksole: Then how did you get possession of the photographs, Mister Straker? The ones you have shared with this commission.

  Witness: The film came in the post, a few months ago. No return address.

  Commissioner Ksole: From him?

  Witness: I can only assume so.

  Commissioner Ksole: And the notebook. Do you have this also?

  Witness: I have photocopies.

  Commissioner Ksole: Are you willing to provide them to the commission as evidence?

  Witness: I am.

  Commissioner Ksole: Do you know what became of the original document, Mister Straker?

  Witness: No, sir, I don’t.

  Commissioner Barbour: And you never went to the press, the authorities in the United Kingdom?

  Witness: No, I didn’t.

  Commissioner Ksole: Why not, Mister Straker?

  Witness: I don’t know, exactly. I mean, I thought about it. But after a while I guess I just wanted to forget. I had no proof, and no one would have believed me anyway.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: And Mister Straker, what was in the envelope he left you, that day in Maputo?

  Witness: Diamonds. Five of them.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: The diamonds you took from UNITA, the ones you hid?

  Witness: Yes. They were all there.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: And what did you do with them?

  The witness’s answer is unintelligible.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: Speak up, Mister Straker. What did you do with the diamonds you stole?

  Witness: I squandered them.

  Commissioner Barbour: Do you have anything else to say, son, before we conclude?

  Witness: No, sir. Except to ask when I might expect to hear back from the commission about my amnesty.

  Commissioner Barbour: It will be several weeks, at least, Mister Straker. You will be notified as soon as there is a ruling. The commission thanks you for your honesty, and your willingness to come forwards to help in the process of healing our country’s wounds. I know it has been very difficult for you.

  Witness: Thank you, sir.

  Commissioner Lacy: There is one last thing, Mister Straker, before you go. We are able to share some information with you, facts that have come to light as part of this process. As you know, all of the transcripts of these hearings will be made available to the public in due course. This is an open and transparent process.

  Witness: I understand.

  Commissioner Lacy: In your testimony you mentioned a doctor, Vivian.

  Witness: Yes, ma’am.

  Commissioner Lacy: Her name was Doctor Vivian Russell. Her husband was Captain John Russell, SAAF. Official government records, now declassified, show that John Russell was arrested by the Bureau of State Security on 3rd August 1980, for suspected acts of treason. He was held in detention and died in custody of apparent suicide on 7th October 1981.

  Commissioner Rotzenburg: We will be in contact, soon, Mister Straker. Until then, please do not try to leave the country.

  Epilogue

  15th November 1996,

  Maputo, Mozambique

  ‘Allo?’

  ‘Hello, Rania.’

  ‘Claymore. How are you?’

  ‘I saw my friend today. I went to her grave.’

  ‘Your friend?’

  ‘A lady I knew when I was here before. A long time ago.’

  ‘Je suis desolée, Claymore.’

  ‘You would have liked her, Rania. She was a lot like you. A writer.’

  Silence on the end of the line, her breathing.

  ‘I tried, Rania. I told them everything.’

  ‘The commission?’

  ‘They’re not going to give me amnesty.’

  A deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Claymore.’

  ‘They’re going to charge me. They want to put me in jail.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, Claymore. I am so sorry.’

  ‘You knew.’

  Silence on the end of the line.

  ‘You knew, Rania. Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Claymore?’

  ‘Back in Yemen when we first met, you told me you’d seen my SADF service record. Do you remember? It wasn’t that long ago, Rania.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But—’

  ‘Then you knew I’d been dishonourably discharged. That they had linked me with COAST, had accused me of war crimes.’

  She was crying, now. ‘I saw the dishonourable discharge report, but that is all. There was nothing else. Nothing about the reasons why. Claymore, I didn’t know. Je te jure.’

  Clay breathed, listened to the sound of her tears.

  ‘Mon Dieu, if I had seen something like that, do you not think I would have mentioned it?’

  Clay said nothing, stood staring into the depths of his memory.

  ‘Claymore?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rania. I just assumed … I shouldn’t have.’ Again, he’d been too quick to judge, to lash out.

  Silence, for a while, and then: ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Run.’

  ‘No, Claymore. Stay where you are. Please. I will come to you, chéri. Give me a few days. It will take me some time to organise a babysitter, flights. It will be so good to see you again.’

  Clay grabbed the balcony’s handrail, steadied himself against the distant blue of the horizon, that unperturbable line between ocean and sky that stretched to the ends of the world.

  ‘Claymore?’

  ‘You have a child.’

  ‘I should have told you. I did not know how to reach you. I am married, Clay. I have a son.

  All that this meant washed through him, a torrent.

  ‘Chéri, are you there?’

  That word of hers: chéri. He closed his eyes, said: ‘I’m happy for you, Rania.’ He was.

  ‘You would like him, Clay. You would like them both.’

  ‘I wrote to you.’ He shouldn’t have said it.

  ‘I know, Claymore. I am sorry.’

  Clay watched a family, a couple with two young children, walk hand in hand through the hotel garden towards the beach.

  ‘I can be there by the twenty-eighth,’ she said.

  Clay filled his lungs, exhaled until there was nothing left. ‘I’ll write it out for you instead, everything. I’ll post it to you. There are photos, too, notes and documents. Pro
of. I kept the originals. You can use it any way you like. Just tell it.’

  ‘Claymore, chéri. I will. But I want to see you. There is so much we need to discuss. I should never have left it as I did.’

  ‘No, Rania.’ No. He would write it. He would write it as truly and completely as he could. And then maybe she would understand.

  She was crying now, deep sobs coming across the line. ‘I can be in Maputo in three days. Just give me three days. Please, chéri. Please.’

  ‘I won’t be here when you arrive.’

  ‘Non, Clay. Please.’

  ‘It’s okay, Rania. It’s too dangerous. You have your family to think of. This is best. I shouldn’t have asked you. I’m sorry.’

  Rania sighed. All the energy that had crackled through the line a moment ago was gone. Her voice came flat and resigned. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Try to keep going.’

  ‘Where? Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ra. I don’t know.’

  ‘Claymore, please.’

  ‘Will you write it, Ra?’

  ‘You know that I will, chéri.’

  Clay put down the phone, walked to the table and picked up the handgun, felt its weight in his hand and stared out at the sea. He had done what he had said he would. He had kept his promise. Rania would write the story, and the world would finally know the truth. And then, maybe one day, the dead and their wandering spirits would rest, and there would be peace.

  But now, it was time to run.

  Historical Note

  Operation COAST was established in 1981 by the apartheid government of South Africa as the nation’s secret chemical and biological weapons programme. COAST was seen as a vital part of the war effort against the communist insurgencies in neighbouring countries, and against domestic enemies of the regime, including the African National Congress (ANC) and its sympathisers. From its outset, COAST was run by one man (who the press later dubbed ‘Doctor Death’), with little or no oversight. Within a short period of time, several hundred researchers and equipment from around the world were assembled and put to work within a number of shell companies set up by COAST, including the Roodeplaat Research Laboratories (RRL).